What I Would Do Sexually to Seth MacFarlane
by Ga1 Friday
Summary: A girl with a fetish for voice actors. Family Guy, Seth MacFarlane, Brian, Stewie, Peter, Quagmire, Carter, Tom Tucker, Charlie Chaplin/Hitler, Bill Clinton, Dick Rogers, W.C. Fields, Fred Flintstone. Also, Mila Cunis, Seth Green, Alex Borstien and several OC's.
1. Chapter 1

"What I would do sexually to Seth MacFarlane"

She schemed her way into a grandiose Hollywood party. Banking on his fetish for big band music, she was dolled up like a vintage pin-up in a cocktail dress cut to hug her curves. Nights obsessed by listening to that versatile voice had driven her to indulge in this audio-sexual fixation. Determination gleamed in her eye. A familiar laugh resonated in her ear. He faced away, surrounded by people amused to hear Brian the Dog's voice coming out of a person. In a chic tailored suit, he lapped up the attention. She took a deep breath. Channeling Mae West with her hands on her hips, she cleared her throat and raised an ironic eyebrow.

"Seth MacFarlane," she commanded, without raising her voice. Her tone carried over the din and many drunken eyes turned hoping to see shit going down. He turned to see her imposing, uncomfortably close. His eyes plummeted like dark stones to the ample cleavage threatening to spill over an unapologetic neckline. She smiled at the look of reserved amusement on his face. Confidant that she had the room's attention, she softened and purred:

"You have a beautiful voice." This caused a tension-breaking titter among the observers and he mocked bashful. So everyone could hear, she sassed, "Does that phrase just make your dick hard, or what?" The abrupt profanity inspired raucous inebriated laughter, perfect sound camouflage. She took the opportunity to lean in, pressing her silky glove on the back of his neck and her huge knockers against his chest. A breathy whisper slipped from her lips:

"I want to fuck you. In the bathroom, five minutes." As she pulled away, he scanned her face for any sign that it was a joke. Her eyes shot laser beams into his, showing the force of her gravity. She turned and walked away, mesmerizing him with her swaying anatomy, sculpted by the dress to accentuate a torrid hip roll. His retort lamented his fill of underhanded complements from the Fox executives. She flipped her hair and tossed back a coy wink.

The door to the bathroom creaked open. She turned around with a thick joint pinched between index finger and thumb, "That was less than five minutes."

"That was quite an offer." He replied, ready with a silver lighter. She grabbed a fistful of necktie, planted her pouty red kisser over his shit-eating grin and exhaled the earthy smoke into his lungs. A perfect train of smoke rings escaped his mouth. Giggles bubbled up inside her, as she was amused by the surreal, cartoony quality of the moment. She gasped as she was swept into a low dip for a dashing smooch. Upright again, the joint was between his lips. He pulled a long drag, wiggling his eyebrows at her. She took a toke and he started to kiss her thumping jugular.

"Growl for me," she moaned. A low, canine sound rolled over his tongue. The exact growl she had in mind. Such willingness to slip into character confirmed her suspicion that it's not his first spin on this merry-go-round. His natural sex growl was incorporated into Brian, along with everything else about him. Rumbling like a dog with a bone, he leaned forward to bury his face in her luscious double D's. She gently placed the joint on the windowsill and shoved him into the closest stall, following only to attack in a demented sexual fervor.

"Giggity." He ribbits. An ecstatic sound charged out of her and reverberated around the tile. The next moment, they hear the door start to open. She clicks the latch on the stall. His smile grew and his eyes narrowed as he figured her out. A drunken party guest stumbled in seeking a receptacle for several vodka/redbulls and a tray of shrimp puffs battling out of his esophagus. Inside the stall, they were frozen in place by the threat of discovery. Her hand broke the stillness by slipping inside his pants without a sound. The interloper sniffed the air in the bathroom.

Eyes wide, powerless to stop this psycho pin-up's salacious churning, Seth struggled to keep his cool. Having made a career off of what was coming out of his mouth, it was quite a challenge keeping it shut. She was thrilled by his aroused discomfort and possibly being caught. The trespasser found the forgotten joint. Fingers slide up her stocking-clad gams and invade her garters. The tipsy snob took a drag. Popping up from tonguing her left nipple, Seth bluffs (in a noir voice):

"Can't a man take a shit without so many reefer addicts puffing that wacky weed in here?" The intruder abruptly ditches the smouldering roach and exits the restroom. Exactly one second later, she bursts out laughing. In the same voice he says, "Say sugar, whaddya say we am-scray?" She felt slightly incredulous. It couldn't be this easy. He opened the stall and offered an elbow, which she took with a practiced air of skepticism.

"Won't people talk if we traipse out of here together?

"Let 'em talk! I'm the boss around here, sweet-cheeks," W.C. Fields answered. She was curious to find out if there was a real person somewhere in this crowd. They strode out of the men's room, exasperated bystanders be damned. The valet pulled up in a sleek classic car, apparently right off of the set of _Who Framed Roger Rabbit?_

"You gotta be kidding me."

"What?" He was poorly feigning innocence in a slightly effeminate simper.

"It's like you're a caricature of yourself!" Her disbelief prickles through amusement and delight. Having no defense, he shrugs:

"Hey dollface, this is make-believe. Why not?" Exactly. Why the hell not? If this was a cartoon-noir extrapolation of reality, why not go all out? Going with it, she slipped into the soft leather seat, which was probably organic or other hippie bullshit that makes it seem better without really explaining why. The car whirred to life and Frank Sinatra immediately started singing "Strangers in the Night". They glided over magnificent California landscape with the last rays of daylight. She felt as if aliens may be abducting her, but that's okay.

The secluded house was populated by glossy modern furniture, an audiophile's wet-dream stereo, a grand piano, and several artistically asymmetrical bookshelves. He made drinks at the post-modern bar and she inspected the books with a directness that said she knew what she was looking for. A reverent finger traced the organized stacks of cartoon books mixed with classics and gave a lingering stroke to a worn copy of Kafka's_ Metamorphosis_. He handed her a very dirty martini. "Which one's your favorite?" She asked, toasting the books, as if she didn't already know. Everyone's favorite family guy answered:

"Whichever one'll make you take your clothes off, sweetheart." With his nasally chuckle in tow. Half of her martini got crammed up her nose by a giggle-snort. When vermouth stopped dripping from her sinuses, she offered:

"You're not on the clock, MacFarlane. You don't have to do that if you don't want to. I'm going to fuck you no matter who you are!" Alighting an earnest pinch on his cheek.

"Oh, I want to. I see this turning out to be quite entertaining. Just imagine the cast of characters that could run a train on you." Stewie responded, cocking Seth's head to a severe angle. Her right lower eyelid twitched from imagination overload. That vainglorious grin cracked his baby face once again. She's got to up the ante somehow. Putting her drink down, she took her silver cigarette case out of her clutch.

"Would you play something for me first?" She indicated the piano and lit up another joint. Pleased by the request and the joint, he tickled the ivories. Sinatra, "I've Got You Under My Skin." That silky tenor had her swaying in delight, not so much dancing to it as flowing with it. His performance momentarily slipped from perfection when she started to peel her dress off. She her soft paws devoured her sumptuous, vulnerable curves an slipped into a minxy crawl.

"Get up, wake up to re-aah!" He flubs, because she was under the piano, getting under his skin.

"Oh, yeah," Bill Clinton moans. "Nixon had deep throats all wrong." She nearly choked on a laugh trying to force its way out of her windpipe. Laugh seizure subsided, she moved to continue but instead, was unceremoniously scooped up in a fireman's carry. He finagled both her and their drinks to the bedroom, without spilling either, while kicking off his pants.

"That's quite a skill," she laughed.

"This is how I get my rocks off when Wilma's not around." Fred Flintstone replied. Such expertly crafted dialogue had both collapsing on the bed in uncontrollable fits of stoned giggling. She unsnapped her bra and threw it aside. "Yabba dabba..." Fred intoned, the rest muffled between her dirty pillows. Sultry big band jazz plays as she pulled off the rest of his clothes. Introspection trickles into the atmosphere.

_Animators. __They play god, controlling life and death within the confines of the Technicolor universe they create. What can I say? God-like powers are sexy._ Against all reasoning that there is no god in this reality (and there is a lot of that reasoning), he asked:

"Any requests?" Which brought a rush of excitement between her legs. The first inexplicable character that popped into her head... Carter. Without missing a beat he said: "Don't worry Lois, Daddy's just taking your temperature." Spasms of laughter racked her body while he attempted to cure her "hysteria" Edwardian-style. His calloused fingertips found that medicinal spot. Just before she was about to gush sweet dame honey all over, he backed off to put on some "crazy lifetime of drama"-proof armor. When he turned around, she was lying supine with a wicked come-hither stare.

"Strafe mich, mein Führer."

"Lassen sie mich direkt dass esel!" He barked, smacking her ass while shouting German gibberish like a pentecostal Gestapo. She lost herself in this taboo, almost believing she is actually being spanked by Charlie Chaplin. Unable to take any more, she tackled him, straddled him, and twirled an invisible hula-hoop. His rhythmically bucking hips scrambled her brains. She read pure, salty seduction as he observed her creamy, undulating body. Mixing things up, she requested a news flash.

"This just in, my penis in your vagina. There it is again, and again, and again!" He punctuated with thrusts. She laughed so hard her kegels contracted and the first of several orgasms ripped through her body. A look of lavish intoxication washed over his face. Tom says, "Coming up, I'm going to fuck you, _doggy-style_!" Laughing, she nodded eagerly and got on her knees. From behind her, he synchronized open-handed smacks to her rosy backside with the music.

"Bark like a dog!" She exclaimed. A fevered string of barks bounced off the walls, mixed with her increasing volume. Goaded by such unabashed enthusiasm, he growled and flipped her on her back. She bit, scratched and mewed like a cat and pretty soon they were just a cartoon dust cloud of two animals whirling around, doing it. It looks like they're fighting, but they're doing it... they're doing it.

Spent, they panted, lathered in sweat, beneath a crisp, white sheet. He deftly rolled a joint with celebrity super-weed. After one hit, she saw maroon paisley sunbursts when she closed her eyes. Curiosity rose from the mist of her milky cannabis-leden consciousness: "Surprising. It seems you would be sick of people demanding that you conjure up such a plethora of characters all the time."

"What's not to like about it?" Quagmire said. "The ladies dig it. All I have to do is open my mouth and suddenly they're falling over themselves to get to my junk."

"Yeah, it's freakin' sweet having everybody think I'm a big-shot, just because I make cartoons and do some wacky voices." Peter chimed.

"And one of them is just my own fucking voice!" Brian/Seth asserted.

"Can you believe what I can get away with because I can do this? I could practically pinch a doodie on the CEO's desk and Fox would still sign my checks!" Stewie flourished.

"So, where's the real you?" She demanded, overwhelmed by all of this head-spinning. For once, he seemed at a loss for words, like that question had never been posed before. Recognizing sweet, simple humanity in the awkward silence, she cooed: "There you are." She planted a smooch on his mouth and swooped down to give his cock a long, luxurious suck.


	2. Chapter 2

Three Weeks Later...

It was way too early to be awake, let alone fighting through carpocalyptic traffic to an office full of panicky assistants at Fox Studios. Early Monday mornings were best shrouded in thick Ambien-twilight, but he needed time to weasel out of a meeting with a few of his least favorite executives. For the most part, he managed to avoid contact with anyone higher up than himself, sending an underling proxy to fiddle with the non-creative aspects of getting his cartoons on the air. Today, the corporate overlords were insisting on his presence, much to his righteous chagrin. He didn't claw his way back from the brink of Hollywood oblivion several times over to have to attend any sort of meeting which didn't involve building a better uber-lefty, ultra-violent, Star Wars-referencing, sexual innuendo-laden fart joke. He narrowly sidled past several interns who appeared to be looking for him. Safely inside his office, he exhaled a long sigh of relief.

"Good morning!" An unnaturally bright voice piped. He whirled around with a shrill yelp to see that mysterious girl sitting at his desk, clattering away at his keyboard. Her hair was ravenous black, she was wearing cat-eye glasses and some former Alaskan governor's approximation of a business suit, but he was sure it was her. The one who reveled in his talents to a fetishistic extent for one night, then disappeared before he woke up. Just as his brain was formulating the thought that it was NOT okay that a "stranger" was randomly in his office and on his computer, all of the blood drained from his head. Slick as a viper and twice as quick, she slinked across the room and loomed within range of his coffee breath. Lust radiated from her puckish mouth and her shapely, fuck-me stare. He pursed his lips in anticipation.

"Let me get that for you!" She cheerfully intoned, ducking his kiss and taking a stack of forgotten files. "Remember when I tried to warn you that all of those people were going to see us traipse out of that bathroom together? Well, it's about to bite you in the ass." She flashed her million-dollar grin. Bouncing back to his desk, she started transcribing the notes within the files. He had the cold, sinking feeling that this was not a sex thing. A cleaning lady nudged him out of his shocked stupor with the door, pushed open by a rolling trash can. It was way too early to be dealing with this. Bailing on a potential runaway crazy-train, he retreated to the hallway to grab a random gopher by the shoulder.

"What is that woman doing in my office?" he whispered, intensely gesticulating towards his usurped sanctuary for the benefit of the gopher, who looked less like a rodent and more like a deer in headlights.

"Um? She works here, Mr. MacFarlane?" The gopher squeaked. Click. He understood what was going on. It made him a little queasy, but he was pretty sure he had to handle this one himself. The gopher stood, wide-eyed and utterly intimidated.

"Everyone calls me Seth. Now, run along, kid." A hair ruffle placated the frightened gopher, who scurried away. Resolving himself to the attitude that got his show uncancelled, he burst back into his office. "You did not just Erin Brockovich me."

"I clean later." Muttered the cleaning lady, who then took her sweet time pushing her cart back into the hallway. The girl managed to toss a balled up page from his notes into the retreating trash can before the door closed.

"Oh, but I did." She said, in a mock-simper, incessantly clicking away at the keys. Her cheery confidence was starting to irk him. He had had every intention of trying to reason with this wackjob, but his patience was wearing thin. She scrutinized a tentative beat sheet, "You know, a few of these new show ideas are pretty good, but I feel like you're starting to cross the threshold between what's amusingly referential to what's annoyingly derivative."

"Get out of my office." He snarled. Who the fuck does this bitch think she is?

"Haha, good one. Okay, so we have a lot of work to do and that big meeting is in half an hour. Do you want me to schedule a debriefing session with the writers after?" She continued to type as she talked, not even glancing at the screen. He was keeping his distance, but he could tell she wasn't just spuriously stenographing. She was on his computer, getting her mitts deep inside some potentially embarrassing material.

"I'm calling Security." He threatened, picking up the receiver.

"I don't think you want to do that before you see this." She whipped out her phone, screen full of his stark-naked form. His ego whispered that the consistent hours with the trainer were paying off.

"Big deal, good luck trying to sell that." He blustered, hoping she wouldn't call his bluff. Once he knew what angle she was playing, he would tell his lawyer. She tittered in response.

"Oh, give my sleuthing skills a chance, wouldja? What do you think of this?" She looked like a grade-grubbing honor student as she swiped to the next photo. In this one, he was snorting coke off of her nipple. "And this?" Swipe. He was tied-up, blindfolded and ball-gagged. She was riding him like a pony while wearing a Batman mask. "See? We managed to arrange a whole photo series." Swipe. He was wearing only a swastika armband (not on his arm) and giving a snappy Nazi salute. His mouth hung agape in horror, then snapped shut.

"Wait one fucking second! I don't remember any of this! These have to be some sick photoshop joke, right?" Desperation tinged his voice and he prayed to the flying spaghetti monster that he was right. She gave him a patronizing expression and shook her head.

"No, you wouldn't remember because I Micked your martini. It made you rather... agreeable." The lascivious wink she snapped at him solidified his growing conviction that he was dealing with a sociopath. He was also in a lot of trouble, but he couldn't let her know that.

"I'm a comedian. Everyone would think it's a joke. Even if you plastered these over every tabloid, it would only be free publicity for me. So go ahead, you crazy bitch and get your greasy paws offa my Mac!"

"Ooh, speaking of greasy paws, check these out!" Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. He threw up in his mouth a little but managed to choke it back down. "Oh, and let's not forget the screenshots of your browser history. Tisk, tisk. This could get you into some legal trouble..." Flashes of a Pee-Wee-Hermanesque downfall started to flit through his mind. Still, people loved that sordid celebrity shit nowadays. He could retire with a massive fortune and the adoration of his freakier fans intact. If only it were just his career at stake. He fought to regain his composure, if not for himself, then for the multitudes of Family Guy employees that could lose their jobs because he fucked up. Assuming his manliest stance and pronouncing every syllable through a tight jaw:

"I'm Seth MacFarlane. I'm the highest paid television writer in history. I have more money than Jesus Fucking Christ and more lawyers than a Synagogue on Yom Kippur. Who do you think you are?"

"I'm the gal who could make your life a lot easier... or a lot harder. And you're going to let me help you once you see this last picture." Swipe. She held her phone like a hidden ace and he brought it close to his face, filling his expression with soft golden light.

"Is that...?" He muttered, she nodded.

"It's beautiful."

He handed the phone back to her, observing her sexy form lounging in his chair with a smug attitude. He wondered how easy it would be to fit that body in his trunk.

"What do you want?"

"I want a job, working directly for you." She smiled evil-sweetly, like a scheming child. That was not the answer he was expecting.

"Are you serious?" He marveled at the ludicrous solemnity her nod displayed. "You gotta be kidding me! You drugged me, took freaky pictures of me and you're blackmailing me all because you want to work for me? Aren't there more conventional ways to apply for a job?" His eyes trained on her perky gazungas as she shrugged. The cartoony slide whistle sound effect was almost audible.

"I suppose. But this is more fun! Besides, I didn't hear you complaining with your cock in my mouth." Her saccharine tone belied the molten heat emanating from her gaze, turning him on despite his revulsion. She put a warm hand to his cheek, giving him a prickly case of goosebumps. "Hey, look at the bright side, Seth. It could be a lot worse! I could be trying to extort money from you or disrupt your creative process. My only desire is to assist you in the creation of work in which I truly believe. In return for my silence, I offer all of my professional talents at your disposal."

"You're an actress?" His snarky question was met with an open-handed crack across the cheek, backed by a hate-filled glare.

"How dare you! Let me be clear that I am in this for more than just me or you or the combined egos of all Los Angeles county. Do you have any idea how big this has gotten? Let me explain this in a way I hope you'll understand: Freedom of speech is essential to the survival of the human race. Without the constant exchange of ideas, we stop evolving and any kindergarten biology teacher can tell you that stagnation equals death. Without the antisepsis of innovation, our collective culture becomes a fetid mud puddle, rotting on an insignificant speck of existence, hurtling through space. Subversive commentary pushes the boundaries of what we find appropriate, keeping fresh memes flowing through our culture, helping us to better understand our narrow view of the universe and survive!" All flashing eyes and ranting movements, she was beautiful in her fury. He was mesmerized.

"They're just cartoons." He whimpered. She got in his face again, so close that he could feel the heat her flushed cheeks exuded. Her dark eyes locked, unflinching on his. "That is exactly the type of attitude I am here to combat. You're getting lost up your own asshole, Seth. I may be the only thing that can save you from self-destruction. Anyway, its not like you have a choice. This is happening. You will just have to trust that I have your best interests at heart." A deranged cheshire-cat smile curled on her lips. His throat clicked.

"What is it that you want to do here?"

"Oh, this and that. I'll set my own salary, something reasonable for a gal starting out in the business. Don't worry about the paperwork, I've already taken care of it." Perky persona instantly reestablished, she gathered up the now orderly pile of notes and made for the door. "I'll just go file these. Any questions?" Too many, he thought.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"You may call me Gal Friday, Mr. MacFarlane." She closed the door with exaggerated pomp. He slumped into his chair, a raging erection tenting his pants. Less than thirty seconds later, she burst back through the door, causing him to jump out of his skin. "One last thing. Since we are going to be working together, it would be wise if there were no further fraternizing. You are my boss, after all. It wouldn't be ethical. Also, it will create some delicious sexual tension that you can channel into your work."

"Yeah, I think I'm getting a few ideas already. You better get even farther away from my junk." He grumbled, moodily filling a glass with liquid amber. She smirked and closed the door while whistling the refrain to "The Sadder but Wiser Girl". He ran over and locked it. Back at his desk with a hastily rolled joint and a much-too-early-in-the-day-cocktail, he put his head in his hands and tried to figure out what to do. All he came up with was "That. Fucking. Cunt!" The last word was more reptilian than mammalian. Growled straight from the primal brain stem, which hissed "Kill or be killed".

"That's what you get for sticking your dick in crazy." That little imp chimed. His head sprung up from the desk, initially unaware of the source of the voice. He was relieved to discover that he was just talking to himself again.

"Stewie, now's not the time."

"But it is the time! The time for action!" The most Republican part of him commanded.

"What action, Stan? She's got me by the balls and who knows what she's planning to do with them?" Seth was gesturing around the room as if it were full of people.

"You've got to rend your balls from the clutches of that succubus! Women were intended to be subservient to men! It's God's will, just like when all the dinosaurs drowned in the flood and became good old American petroleum!" He sat down at his desk again, immediately changing all of his passwords and deleting several unflattering files.

"Is this supposed to be helping?"

"I'll tell you what'll help, bang! Zoom! Right in the kisser!" Ralph couldn't pass up such an appropriate opportunity to snap out his catchphrase.

"If only it were that easy." He was in the middle of googling the bogus name she gave him, with zero relevant results.

"Are you googling her? Really? Vast untold resources and you're acting like a middle school stalker? Why not follow her on twitter?" Despite the harassing tone, Stewie had given him an obvious idea. She did in fact have a twitter account and her bio read "I'm Gal Friday and I work for Seth MacFarlane." With no other information. Thunk. His forehead hit the desk. His fingertips found the tiny security button that was installed underneath in case of right-wing nutjobs and crazed fans.

"Kinda pointless now, huh? That one likes it when you press her buttons, heh heh." Even Quagmire's misogynistic wisecracks couldn't quell his simmering panic.

"What am I going to do, Quagmire? She could ruin everything! I can't go back to basic cable syndication! The South park Guys will wipe the floor with me!" His right cheek got a slap to match the left, by his own hand.

"Pull it together, man! You wanna know what I would do? ...Make it look like an accident. Then you just have to deal with the body and that's when the real fun starts!"

"Giggity."


	3. Chapter 3

He was always running late, but he hurried for no man. Disposable cup of quadruple espresso in hand, he meandered through the maze of cubes, subtly basking in the trepidatious awe radiating from the surrounding employees. Twenty-six minutes past the start time of the meeting, he was recovering from a furious masterbatory outburst set to violent bondage porn, followed by a desperate call to his lawyer. He needed to reestablish the state of mind necessary for dealing with the tedious grifters in charge.

"Gal Friday" had given him a serious case of ruffled tail feathers, but he was not going to be kept from doing his job, if he had any say. Every once in awhile, he was forced to defend his empire against the disingenuous gatekeepers to his creative freedom. They grudgingly polished his apples while pulling shiesty moves like forcing a Rush Limbaugh episode on the world. A petrified intern tailed him with a tablet, trying (in vain) to fill him in on the meeting's agenda. Seth made little effort to follow the chatter spewing from the minion. His dark eyes darted around every corner, alert for the shrew's inevitable reappearance.

As he approached the glass conference room doors, what he saw through them made him stop and vigorously rub the disbelief from his eyes. The usually grim programming executives appeared to be roaring with bona fide laughter. Gal pranced in front of the projector screen, finishing up a flashy powerpoint presentation, gushing animated zeal. Her body language was overtly TV-MA. She placed her audacious posterior on the table in front of the portly republican in charge. Seth's jaw dropped when she playfully stroked the puppy-eyed executive's bald spot.

Her inaudible closing wisecrack had the entire conference room practically pissing themselves. They hung on every whisper, fervently gobbling out of her meticulous hand. Seth stood stunned as they filed out of the conference room, chortling and congratulating him as if he had given the presentation.

He approached her with extreme caution. She was gathering up papers and humming "All of You" with a look of serene satisfaction. He grabbed her arm, using every ounce of self-control to not squeeze a black-and-blue thumbprint into her skin, and demanded:

"What did you just do?" At this unnecessary display of power, she stopped humming and sneered at him in a way that would give Ted Bundy nightmares. Her next move happened so fast, he didn't even have time to scream like a girl. Using unanticipated strength, she busted out a Ju-Jitzu maneuver that had him bent over the table with his arm twisted behind his back before you could say "torn rotator cuff".

"I just got American Dad renewed for another two seasons, got you complete merchandising rights to The Cleveland Show, got that 'Kardashian Brand-AIDS' joke back in next season's Family Guy premiere and restrained myself from breaking your fucking arm. Not bad for a noob, huh?" Her lips tickled his ear as she whispered. Making her point with a hard twist, she released her grip. He bounced away on the balls of his feet like a boxer, ready for the next blow. She seemed to find his reaction hilarious. "Now we know to use our words, huh?"

"Duly noted, you crazy skank." Stewie popped out of his mouth like a demented jack-in-the-box. Seth clamped his hand over the offending orifice in bitter embarrassment. Her pink tongue caressed her pearly chops, looking like a lioness about to pounce. His mind dove headfirst into a fantasy of ripping her clothes off with his teeth and bending _her_ over the conference table with an office full of interns gawking. The soreness in his shoulder overruled and held him in restraint. "That's all you'll get out of me until you tell me what the fuck went on in here. Those pedantic turkeys have never given in so much and there's no way a gang bang went on in here without me knowin' about it."

"Pssht. A lot goes on around here without you knowing it. What's the matter, Mr. MacFarlane? Afraid to share your toys?" The pools of seduction dripping from her being were just another vicious power play. He dug his nails into his palms until the pain made his erection subside... somewhat.

"Can the act, Friday. What's your angle? They're not going to lose money for all the pussy in the world."

"That's just it, they're not going to lose money. We're all going to be _obscenely_ rich." The way she said the word "obscenely" turned it into an onomatopoeia.

His interest piqued, "How?" She looked as if the news is about to burst out of her, but she paused for a few dramatic beats.

"They're going to air 'Partial Terms of Endearment' on January 22nd! That's..."

"The anniversary of Roe v. Wade. Give me some credit, wouldja?" Mocking her patronizing tone.

"Wow, you remember the date you celebrate not having to pay child support every year." Unphased.

"Okay, enough of this malarkey! How did you get them to agree to that? They told me advertisers would never sign up to play alongside an episode about abortion. This is the only situation in which I've ever taken 'never' as an answer." Fox refused to air the pro-choice episode and unlike season 3's "When You Wish Upon a Weinstein", they did not relent.

"Well, Mr. Macfarlane, I laid out a poignant argument for the purest expression of one of those 'Core American Values' they pretend to have a boner for. I believe you're aware of my stance on the first amendment?" Boy, was he. She continued, flipping through the slides of the powerpoint, melodramatic:

"I explained to them that the terrorists win unless every aspect of an issue is gallantly represented by those passionate enough to divulge themselves. I cited numerous pieces of statistical data that Fox drives away a critical viewer demographic with an unrounded political skew. Deny an episode based on political content and that demographic consists of the most die-hard-dvd-purchasing-message-board-posting-fans. How many of these little bullet points do you think they took to heart so far?"

"Zero."

"Correct. So I handed them a list of major advertisers willing to pay a 500% markup to air during this episode." Her demure tone did nothing to prevent a towering hard-on resurgence at the thought of all of that money. His eyes scanned the slide showing a list of colossal conglomerates willing to shill out near-Super Bowl money to run a spot during a show that was three seasons old. He shook his head in disbelief.

"I don't believe you. I have one of the most resourceful marketing teams in Hollywood, how did you get Nike and Coca-cola to agree to piss that kind of money away?"

"It's easy when you're offering full media coverage of an internal scandal leading up to the event." She answered, as if sharing a recipe for lemon bars. Every question seemed to open up a fresh can of vomiting worms.

"Wait... what scandal?"

"You're going to threaten to quit unless they air the episode. There's going to be a lot of catty back and forth in the media between you and the Fox executives, you're going to have a few Charlie Sheen-style meltdowns on Howard Stern, twitter will be smeared with excrement, no one will know if they're actually going to go through with it until the last minute. By that point, everyone will be watching, even though they've already seen it on dvd and the internet." She sat at the head of the conference table with her fingers tented, an evil villainess stereotype.

He had to hand it to her, the plan was brilliant. An adamant bit of pride held praise captive in his throat. "Who says I'm willing? I am very careful to keep a steady public image and this plan would make me seem like a temperamental jerk."

"Your willingness is irrelevant. You will do this because I could destroy your carefully crafted image for fun. Let me reiterate that I am orchestrating all of this for what I consider to be a noble purpose..."

"Yeah, yeah. Freedom of speech and all that noise. Why are you doing this to _me_? How can you justify extorting a cartoonist when you should be using your considerable talents to put the screws to some seedy politician?" The crestfallen expression that cascaded down her face made him feel like a world-class heel. He was alarmed to see tears welling up in her eyes. Feeling a wary need to pat her hand in comfort, he was drawn in by the deep black holes of her eyes, pulling everything to them with their tremendous gravitational force. Their lips were about to touch when she burst out laughing, causing him to jump as if electrocuted.

"Gotcha!" Pointing a double gun salute at him, she smirks as if winning the Sick Joke of the Century award. "I am motivated by self-love, Mr. MacFarlane. We're the same kind of person, your best interests are my best interests. That's all you need to know." In a characteristic flourish, she leaves him, enraged and confused. Stewie breaks free:

"What the fuck does that mean? Can someone please hire a crazy-to-English translator?"


	4. Chapter 4

In an office full of sketchpads and drawing implements, Seth MacFarlane was moodily doodling on his desk blotter with a bic pen while waiting for his lawyer to call him back. His doodle had grown to Dada-esque proportions, covering the calendar with cartoon versions of Gal Friday in various states of torture and dismemberment. This girl had some... interesting ideas, but she was systematically emasculating him. He didn't trust her cryptic quirkiness or her tenacious sexuality. Something was up with her and he knew Murray would find out. A shrewd Jew lawyer was as essential in Hollywood as a spray tan and a coke habit. His phone buzzed and he automatically balled up the month of July, as if Morty could see over the phone how American Psycho he'd gone.

"Whaddya got, Murray?"

"Ready for this?"

"Yup."

"Nothing."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Just nothing? Nothing at all? How is that possible?"

"All the info in her personnel file was bullshit, you probably figured that out. Her phone number is '867-5309'. Her address is '1313 Mockingbird Lane'. She listed Galileo, Bertrand Russell, John F. Kennedy and Mickey Rourke as her previous employers. Mickey said he had heard of her, but I'm pretty sure he was high on PCP."

"So, what's new?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? How can you tell me nothing with the amount of money I pay you, Murray?"

"Look, Seth. You gave me a description of a brunette, 5'9'' with dark, kinda crazy eyes and great cans. Do you know how many Betty Page-wannabes there are in this town? It's like a needle in a haystack. Now, my guy is good, but you're going to have to give me a little more info than that. Get a picture, a driver's license, ya gotta give me something. Until then, I've got nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Bye." Click. Thunk.

...

Table reads always brightened his day. He lived for the feel of a live performance, the push and pull of ideas, the view of Mila Cunis. Of all the tedious steps in creating a primetime animated sitcom, he still managed to enjoy sitting down with his cohorts and trying to make eachother laugh. When he opened the door, his feeling of lightness crashed and burned. Gal was sitting across from where he always sits, exchanging covert hushed tones with Mila.

Mila giggled and looked up at him. Rage was making a nice hollandaise with sexual tension inside of him. Gal beamed at him, tucked a strand of luxurious brown hair behind Mila's ear, and whispered a secret to her. It was a possessive gesture, as far as he could see. He felt the rumble of a familiar growl start bubbling up in his chest, but he forced it back down.

Mila was one hell of a distraction in this business. Usually the beautiful ones were vapid walking hairpieces, but she was as witty and brave as she was magnetic. Both men and women got caught in her unconscious tractor beam, falling into the warm, soft pools of her eyes. She gently made it clear to almost everyone she met that it wasn't going to happen. An effervescent laugh escaped her. Gal Friday joined in, less subtle.

"Yo, my man. Wake up." Seth Green clapped him on the shoulder. He had been shooting daggers at the two conspirators across from him. Were they in cahoots? He would find out once he got a picture of her. Triumphantly snapping a picture of her smirking mug, he was met with the white spinny of death before he could send it to Murray.

"God damn battery." He shook the phone in frustration. Gal smiled with an 'oh, well.' kind of shrug. "Who's got a charger? Someone get me a charger!" Alex Borstien made him stop waving the phone around.

"You don't need it now, anyway. We need to start." Alex gracefully took over as an intern scurried off in search of a charger for Seth. "Okay, so! Exciting news! They're going to air 'Partial Terms of Endearment' on January 22nd and we're going to premiere a new episode right after. Now, this one was written a while ago, but it was recently dusted off..." She shot a pointed grin at Gal. "...And we think it would be perfect with a little tweaking. So, let's get started."

An assistant reads: "_Interior, Griffin Living Room, Day. Peter is drinking a beer and watching t.v. Meg enters_."

"Dad? Could you help me with a report on Freedom of Speech?" Mila spoke so honestly for her polar opposite character.

"You're a fucking cunt. I hope you got AIDS from Macaulay Culkin." Although Peter Griffin answered, that ad lib was obviously directed at Mila. No one on the Family Guy staff has the capacity to exasperate, but the entire room took a collective inhale, as if the awkwardness were airborne. Seth had no idea where that came from. He used to be such a nice guy. Mila looked shocked and hurt. Courteous as ever, she excused herself and made it to the hallway before she started crying. Gal ran after her. All eyes trained on him. He could only sputter like Woody Allen.

"Jesus, Seth! Haven't you heard?" Alex used a harsh, accusatory tone.

"What?"

"Macaulay Culkin does have AIDS, dude." Seth Green informed.

"What? Oh, fuck me. God damnit!" He ran after the two dark beauties, with all of the complicated problems they cause.

...

He found them in the building's gym which, for the purposes of this story, had a boxing ring. They were circling each other, wearing shorts, sports bras, gloves and nothing else. Gal was giving Mila a few pointers on her boxing stance.

"Okay, you want to stand with your feet at a 45 degree angle, keep your gloves up and don't stop dancing, because I'm gonna hit you pretty hard. I don't want you to hold anything back, because I can take it. Ready? Go!" Gal received a hard jab right in her smart mouth. Seth cheered for Mila without a sound. They launched into a furious battle, landing blows on arms, flanks, cheeks, breasts and lips. Labored grunts and moans escaped them with every thump. He watched them start to glisten with sweat.

"Hit me you fucking cunt!" The voice that came out of Gal was a freaky-accurate impression of Peter. Mila attacked with a rage-filled punch that knocked her ass to the ground. She danced around like Rocky.

"Whoo! I am the champion! Adrianne! Suck my dick!" Mila stopped in the middle of her gratuitous crotch-pointing celebration to notice that Gal hadn't gotten up from the floor. She threw herself down and started patting her cheek with a comically large boxing glove.

"Oh my God! Are you okay?" Mila leaned in close to see if she was still breathing. Gal's head miraculously rose up from the mat to lock lips with Mila, who responded with gusto. She grabbed Mila's ass without bothering to take off her gloves. Seth chose the worst moment to knock over a rack of yoga balls, which bounced free all over the gym. The ladies broke their painfully erotic embrace and tried to pretend that it didn't happen.

"Mila, I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I'm an asshole, you know that!" Seth pleaded.

"I know, Seth. It's okay, I feel better now." Mila smiled down at Gal, who was still laying on the mat, propped up on her elbows, grinning in victory. Seth's stomach did a somersault of hate. Mila felt awkward standing in the middle of their hostile stare down. "Well, uh... I'm gonna go change and we should get back to work." She retreated to the locker room. Gal arose and followed her, singing "Eye of the Tiger" at the top of her lungs.

...

Back in his office, his desk blotter was on May 2015 and he was running out of post-its. He fumbled and nearly dropped his phone when it began to vibrate.

"Murray!"

"Seth."

"Whaddya got?"

"Listen, Seth. I like you, but I can't get involved in something like this."

"What? What are you talking about? Who is she?"

"I'm not qualified to handle your current situation. You're gonna need a professional."

"What kind of 'professional', Murray?" Visions of Hollywood hitmen danced in his head.

"I'm sorry, Seth. I can't talk about this." Click.

"Did you send Murray a picture of me?" Gal stood in the doorway, leaning with her arms crossed beneath her luscious funbags, pushing them together. Seth nearly vomited out his own heart.

"That door was locked." He growled, choking back revulsion and shock. She half-smiled and held up a key identical to his, down to the "Flash Gordon" keychain. She sauntered toward him, nudging the door closed with a coy kick of her ice-pick stiletto.

"Murray and I go way back, you know. He would never risk crossing me." She placed her hands on the desk in front of him, the desk lamp illuminating her titillating threat of an expression and her creamy cleavage. He had an urge to bury his face in them and refuse to come out.

An idea arose from somewhere deep inside him. Two can play at this game. Regaining that suave persona that he'd lost somewhere on the 101 this morning, he moved to the other side of the desk and grabbed her shoulders. When their dark eyes met, both felt the same lecherous spark as when she first approached him at that party. Her intense craving exhibited with every ragged breath and the heat that radiated from every curve. He knew what she wanted.

"I'd like to uncross you." Quagmire declared in a thick whisper. Gal gasped, wide-eyed.

"Giggity." She exhaled. He kissed her hard, taking control like a swarthy 1950's movie star. She responded with equal fervor. Bodies pressed together, hands consuming their respective anatomical landscapes, lips and tongues enmeshed in sloppy vehemence, resistance was futile. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her head back without a trace of gentleness. A primal growl rumbled from his chest as he mock-devoured her palpitating artery. She let out an agonized moan and pushed him away. They sized each other up. She gasped for air, narrow eyed, looking halfway between storming out and using her potent right hook on him. With one sweep, she cleared most of the objects on his desk, diplomatically saving his expensive Mac. She hopped up on the desk with a ferocious grin.

"Yeah, you know what Daddy likes." Peter Griffin implied. She giggled as he hiked up her skirt and wedged himself between her thighs. He pushed her down flat on the desk and began searching for the strings of her panties, coming up empty.

"Oh, you little minx!" The voice was more Tim Curry than Stewie Griffin, but the effect was the same. She grabbed him and they embraced like shipwreck survivors. Suddenly, he felt her stiffen. His face surfaced from between her legs and followed her line of sight to a post-it next to the apple on his computer.

It was a hand-drawn sketch of Gal, decapitated, being violently raped with a spiked baseball bat by none other than Brian Griffin. Gal looked horrified. She stood, pulling down her skirt. Unsticking the post-it, she took a long look and crumbled it up. He found himself at the wrong end of a stern teacher look.

"You can't let people see things like this. They're going to think you're _really_ crazy, and then we're _really_ going to be in trouble."

"It's just... I was just..." Woody Allen made another appearance.

"No. Listen, ask yourself one question right now. Do you believe in your work?"

"Yes! Of course I do!" His conviction was self-evident. "I just think you're taking this way too seriously!"

"Comedy is serious! Do not make me go on another tirade about subversive commentary. I need you to hold it together so that I can get your work out there for everyone to see. Do you think you can do that?" She glared with her hands on her hips like he was some petulant child caught arm-deep in the cookie jar. He was disarmed by her insistence.

"Yes."

"Good. Now I think it's apparent that we need some distance. I'll still be around, but you won't see me for awhile. Just remember, I have all your passwords, all your keys and all of the power in this situation. If you see a note from me, a change in your schedule or any other little message that shows I'm steering you in another direction, so help me, you better take it... Mr. MacFarlane." She left him with a curt nod and confused devastation.


	5. Chapter 5

In the five months since Gal Friday walked out that door, Seth MacFarlane was really playing the part. The habitual five o'clock shadow, the slovenly aroma of liquor and a general dejectedness convinced everyone he was in an emotional spiral. The trouble was, he didn't know what was real and what was part of the act anymore.

Every step of the way, Gal was there, just out of sight. He received his instructions via snippy emails, ironic post-its, and sexy texts. Once she sent an mpeg file. He watched it over and over to convince himself that she wasn't imaginary- a few times with his friend ol' Righty. She always reminded him of what was at stake. Although, it wouldn't have mattered if those pictures surfaced now. His "public image" had been smacked around more than Vallerie Bertinelli in a Lifetime Original Movie. He was holding out for the money. After this, he could retire from cartoons at 40 and leave the interns to run the empire.

Worst part about it, her plan was working. Everyone would definitely be watching. They were paying attention to an issue because he was acting like a jackass. Not exactly a stretch. The problem was, people expected a huge car wreck of a situation to hold their attention nowadays. To show off his new skeevy persona as loudly as possible, he'd made several inebriated public appearances.

At a middle school in Van Nuys, he wrestled a guitar from a music teacher and proceeded to give a screaming rendition of "Rape Me" by Nirvana. The 12-year-olds loved it, especially since they had been suffering though "If I Had a Hammer", but the teachers were pissed. He said to David Letterman that if Fox forced him to quit, he would retire from acting to devote more time to his hip-hop career. Just to be different. He made Howard Stern cry. All at the behest of this mystery woman.

The clock was ticking down and soon it would all be over. He would be back to making his own decisions, if he remembered how. He had a violent urge to vomit while masturbating whenever he received any sort of communication from her.

An email:

_Mr. MacFarlane,_

_You're doing so well. I assume you received those final contracts I sent over. Please sign them by the post-its and I will have them couriered over to the advertisers this afternoon. That spot on Rachel Maddow is tomorrow and you're going to hit on her. Talk about the new episode and gently imply that you're a god. Not _THE_ God. _A_ god. Remember, I'll ruin you if you don't! _

_Toodles!_

_Miss Friday_

A text: _(420-867-5309) U wur n0t craZ enuf on Leno! M0R Quag LESS Bri. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr ;)_

A post-it, left on his private bathroom mirror: _Remember to SMILE BIG! It creeps people out! -GF_

He figured if he stayed somewhat composed and obedient, he had a chance to get out of this situation alive. The day was almost over, which meant he would be able to dodge the protesters, retreat to the safe house, curl up with a bottle and wait the storm out. He couldn't run... no, she was definitely watching. He was making a surreptitious trip to his pot guy when he got the following text:

_Ur :-i guy's bust. 5-0 evrewr. Go 2 FFX & Wilsh, my guy will meet U._

He hadn't told anyone where he was going. She was tracking him through some rather unnerving means.

As he trudged through the last few emails of the day, Mila Cunis gently tapped on his door frame. She looked more stunning in jeans and a t-shirt than most actresses did in haute-couture. Her smile held the same tenderness for him as it would for a wounded puppy. Everyone on his staff bought into the lie that his recent shenanigans were all an act to build up publicity for the premiere. Mila seemed to be the only one who noticed that his careful veneer of showmanship was starting to crack.

"Hey, Seth. Almost done?"

"Yeah, I just, uh..." His eyes drifted back to the computer screen. Several emails from Murray were popping up, but he couldn't register their meaning when he could _smell_ her presence. It was like warm honey, the natural kind, in a jar with the honeycomb still inside.

"Are you okay?" She was trying hard not to sound over-concerned.

"Yeah, um. I just need to... uh, email?" Smooth.

"Okay... Well, we're going to have a little premiere party tonight here in the studio. We figured it probably wouldn't be smart to go out with all of the death threats and everything..."

"That's fine. Have fun."

"You're not coming?" Annoyance slipped into her tone.

"I'd rather skip it... I'm just... so tired. Tell everyone I said hi." He gave her a pained grimace of a smile.

"Oh... Okay. Well, if you change your mind, we're all meeting in the big conference room." She looked as if more words were precariously perched on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them and turned away, closing the door behind her. His nose went right into his top desk drawer, sniffing for a little pick-me-up. The desk phone rang while he was rubbing residue into his gums.

"Hello?"

"Seth."

"Murray."

"Fox is pulling out. They'll still air the new episode, but the abortion one is out."

"The fuck they are! They can't do this at the last minute!" Months of tireless degradation down the drain? Not on Seth MacFarlane's watch.

"Yeah, they can, actually. They found a loophole in the contract that says if they feel it would be a physical danger to the talent, they can pull out."

"Fuck that, Murray! We're in danger one way or the other. Protesters on both sides are riled up and ready to storm the castle. They have to play it or this shitstorm will've been for nothing!"

"Sorry, Seth. This is just the way it's gonna go."

"Call Gal Friday!" It was the only solution, she would know what to do. There was a third trimester pause.

"I'm not touching that one." Click.

His head sunk into his crossed arms, hiding from an ultimate feeling of powerlessness that he hadn't felt since the mid 90's. Someone picked up the receiver and started dialing. None other than Gal Friday herself was standing before him in a gorgeous cream-colored evening gown a la Betty Davis, holding the ringing phone out to him. Without a thought, he took the call.

"Mr. Cohen's office."

"This is Seth MacFarlane. Let me speak to Cohen." Gal mouthed and he repeated, "Right now!"

"Hold please." The sentimental buzz of hold music.

"Seth."

"You can't do this."

"Look, Seth. You have really done some amazing things for us, made us a lot of money, but we're not going to risk the lives of our talent to prove a point. It would be terrible PR and it's just not a fiscal move."

"Don't be such a stereotype, Ezra! Some things are bigger than money, bigger than all of us!" Something within him was exploding at the rate of a supernova. Gal gave him an eager double thumbs-up.

"The Fox Corporation is not going to be responsible for people getting hurt because of your idea that the world revolves around you..." The executive droned on. Seth's manic energy needed direction before it blew up in their faces. Gal held up a post-it:

_Threaten to blow the lid!_

He shook his head. Gal Friday was formidable, but she was still nothing compared to the juggernaut that is Fox, all lawyered up from an entire history of scandalous dealings. She insisted by tapping the post-it pad with a pen. He shook his head with adamance. Gal hit the mute button while Mr. Cohen rambled. The pitch-black crucibles she called eyes were searing into his. Everything faded away except for the receiver in his hand and the two circles of negative space in the middle of her face.

"This is your hero moment. What are you going to do?"

"I don't know!"

"You are going to FIGHT! This is the cause you've been fighting for your whole life, the only cause that matters, the only cause WORTH fighting for!" She never raised her voice, but she may as well have been screaming.

"There's no way to win." His voice carried a flat, emotionless tone. Mr. Cohen was starting to realize that Seth wasn't listening. Gal moved around to his right shoulder, opposite the phone and whispered in his ear.

"Have I ever steered you wrong before? If you do what I say, you'll make oodles of cash, gain a complete license to do whatever the fuck you want and... you're gonna get the girl." He turned to look at her venerable expression. In a flash, her eyes softened into dark, gooey amber and back again. She emitted a fanaticism reserved for those hopelessly in love. _So, that's what this is all about?_

"Seth, hello? Are you still there?"

"Listen to me, Cohen. If you don't hold up your end of the bargain, I'll walk. I'll take my name, my voice and my people. Your Sunday nights will consist of Cartoon Network rejects and the dried-up remnants of the Simpsons. What do you think that will do to your bottom line?" You could hear a pin drop. Mr. Cohen forced a blustering laugh.

"I'm sure there are plenty of bankruptcy lawyers that would love to see you do that." Wiggle room was forming. Gal mimed popping the lid off of a jar.

"I'll expose this whole scam. I'll go to every other news outlet and tell them that I was forced to take part in this circus train wreck to please your fucking advertisers. How's that for PR?" To fill the awkward pause, Mr. Cohen cleared his throat with a pinch too much drama.

"Go ahead. If Casey Affleck can convince everyone that that Joaquin Phoenix documentary was bullshit, then we can spin this too. I'm sorry, Seth. There's just no way."

Gal Friday wrote one word on a post-it and underlined it three times:

_NICARAGUA!_

Seth didn't have a clue as to what she was talking about, but he took a shot:

"It would be a shame if I had to tell the media about what happened in Nicaragua." He could hear Mr. Cohen choke on his own fear.

"WHAT?... We paid a week's salary to silence that cartel!... How could you know?" The panic peeking through Mr. Cohen's steadfast facade was a triumphant delight for Seth.

"I have my sources." He winked at Gal, who was already doing a perky victory dance.

"Goddamn South American hookers..." Mr. Pierce grumbled under his breath. "This can't get out, it'll ruin us all! I mean, their water system will never be the same. We get enough mail from goddamn Greenpeace."

"It will stay between you, me and the wallpaper..." He cracked his first genuine smile in months when Gal threw herself against the wall with her arms outstretched, just like wallpaper. "The episode airs as scheduled and I sign a revised NDA the second end credits roll." Seth could hear him weighing his options. He sure knew that state of mind well. Gal stood rapt, clasping her hands between her breasts in anticipation.

"Fine. But do NOT breathe a word to ANYONE. Not your sister, not your lawyer, not even your goddamn shrink. If you do, you will not only be broke until the sun explodes, you'll also go to a place where they'll put that smart mouth of yours to good use!" Click. Seth slammed the phone down and celebrated by punching the air like it looked at him funny.

"YEAH! SUCK MY DICK FOX CORP!" He broke from expelling massive bird-flipping elation to look for Gal, but she was gone.

…

"We had the abortion." Peter Griffin declared. Credits rolled. Pop went the champagne. The Family Guy staff was half in the bag already. Seth MacFarlane took a quiet moment to observe the revelers, noting that he'd never seen such jubilance over a premiere. The several dozen nerds he worked with took this as a collective win, so rare in a life so put-upon. There was a giddy energy flowing around the over-crowded room, but something was missing. She couldn't be far away. He took a still-fizzy bottle of champagne and made for the door.

"Leaving so soon?" Mila's caramel hand caressed his shoulder. She had a look of drunken willingness plastered all over her face. He took her hand and planted a chaste kiss on her fingers.

"I'll be right back, just looking for someone." He receded to the dim hallway light and Mila went back to playing spin-the-bottle with the post-production team.

…

"_And now, the end is here_

_And so I face the final curtain_

_My friend, _(hic!) _I'll say it clear_

_I'll state my case, of which I'm certain_

_I've lived _(hic!) _a life that's full_

_I traveled each and ev'ry highway_

_And more, much more than this, I did it _(hic!) _my way!"_

Seth was wandering around the halls, swigging champagne and singing Sinatra between comical hiccups. He stopped cold when he heard soft piano music coming from one of the band rooms. It was Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah", played more like the Rufus Wainwright cover, a new spin on a sad old song. Too bad most people knew it mainly from the "Shrek" soundtrack. Peeking in the slightly ajar door, he saw her sitting at a grand piano, playing in her bare feet and pearly satin evening gown. Her hair flowed down her back in dark supple waves, complementing her alabaster skin to a painful degree. She knew the song so well, she played it with her eyes closed:

"_...Your faith was strong but you needed proof_

_You saw her bathing on the roof_

_Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you._

_She tied you to a kitchen chair,_

_She broke your throne, and she cut your hair_

_And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah!_

_Hallelujah, Hallelujah_

_Hallelujah, Hallelujah_

_Baby I have been here before._

_I know this room, I've walked this floor._

_I used to live alone before I knew you._

_I've seen your flag on the marble arch_

_Love is not a victory march..."_

Her voice broke. She took a deep breath and continued with a renewed burst of heart wrenching soulfulness...

"_It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah!_

_Hallelujah, Hallelujah_

_Hallelujah, Hallelujah..."_

Seth started clapping. Gal jumped up with a shrill yelp, knocking over the piano bench. A sheepish expression bloomed on her face. He laughed, walking over to help her right the bench. She took the bottle from him and soothed her strained vocal cords with room-temp bubbly. He set the bench back on the floor and they sat in opposing directions, juxtaposed so that they couldn't see each other. For a long moment, they just stewed in silent thoughts, passing the bottle. When it was empty, Gal fished a joint out of her bra and a lighter out of Seth's pocket.

"So, was it worth it?" Click. The smell of sweet California cannabis made the world seem brighter. Seth thought hard before he answered:

"Definitely."

"Worth a song?" That mischievous twinkle that he longed to see was back in her eyes. He pulled a deep drag and handed the joint back to her.

"Is that all I am to you? A set of rediculosly talented vocal cords and hands?" Roger accused. Gal giggled and nodded.

"Well, alright then. You're just a pair of feet to me anyway." Quagmire replied. The THC was starting to take a delicious effect. Gal slid gracefully atop of the piano and stretched out with her hair cascading over the side, taunting him with her perfectly pedicured toes. As himself, Seth said the two words guaranteed to drive her wild: "Any requests?" To his surprise, she gave a noncommittal shrug.

"Oh, I don't know, something good?" Like everything she had done to him so far, it was a ploy. Buying into it, he started to play a slow, jazzy version of "Something Good" from the Sound of Music. They sang a duet, he was Maria, she was the Captain.

"_[Maria:]_

_Perhaps I had a wicked childhood,_

_Perhaps I had a miserable youth,_

_But somewhere in my wicked, miserable past_

_There must have been a moment of truth._

_For here you are, standing there, loving me,_

_Whether or not you should._

_So somewhere in my youth or childhood_

_I must have done something good._

_Nothing comes from nothing,_

_Nothing ever could._

_So somewhere in my youth or childhood_

_I must have done something good._

_[Captain:]_

_For here you are, standing there, loving me,_

_Whether or not you should._

_[Maria:]_

_So somewhere in my youth or childhood_

_I must have done something good._

_[Maria and the Captain:]_

_Nothing comes from nothing,_

_Nothing ever could._

_[Maria:]_

_So somewhere in my youth_

_[Captain:]_

_Or childhood_

_[Maria:]_

_I must have done something . . ._

_[Maria and the Captain:]_

_Something good"_

As the last notes vibrated through the taught cords of the piano, Seth reached up and brushed the back of his fingers down the shapely curve of her cheek. She looked at him with a novel openness, pleading with her eyes. He didn't think she pleaded for anything. In his experience, it was best not to leave her wanting. The ductile kiss he placed on her lower lip was radically different from all of their previous frantic osculations. He felt a gentile twitch of hesitation and then she sank deep into the embrace, giving in to months of repression. His hand slid from her face down to the cool, slippery surface of her dress, over the swell and dip of breast-waist-hip. She clamped a hand around his wrist. For a second, he thought he was going to feel the metallic bite of handcuffs. He didn't know if that would be good or bad. Instead, she broke free from the longest kiss of his life.

"I have to tell you something."

"Tell me in about an hour." Brian said, capping it off with a lusty growl to shut her up. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she allowed herself to be whisked off of the piano and laid down underneath it, nestled in her many voluminous yards of dress fabric.

…

Half an hour later, Gal was back on top... of the piano with her dress draped over her and ambivalent satisfaction on her face. Seth sat absentmindedly picking out melodies, wearing only pants with suspenders hanging at his hips. Months of turmoil had left him pale and gaunt but somehow cut. Working out had been his solace when drugs, sex and alcohol weren't cutting it. His fingers paused on the keys.

"Wait..." Seth said. "Did she just skip over the good stuff?"

"Yeah, something about continuity. It would have taken a really long time to do all of that justice."

"Sounds like she's afraid to write about winkies." Stewie accused.

"Hush, you!"

_From off camera: _"We're filming!"

"Okay, okay. There's something I need to tell you."

"Whatever it is, it couldn't be more shocking than what we just did with that oboe." The oboe lay several feet away, utterly despondent.

"Well, I hope it's not that shocking." She wrapped her dress around herself and slid down from the piano. Something was really troubling her. She dropped the joint she was trying to light with trembling hands. He took it from her and clicked his silver lighter.

"Maybe I don't need to know." He offered, with the smoldering jay. Her brow furrowed and she looked annoyed.

"You mean you don't already have _some_ idea? Jesus, I thought big-shot hollywood writers were supposed to be smart." She paced, dragging the frothy waves of her dress around in her wake. He was amused watching her flustered, trying to explain herself. "You know when two people can be so alike, it's almost like they're... well, not soulmates, but something different?"

"I know." He grasped her shoulders and planted a medium-intensity smooch on her ruby lips. Her big dark eyes glistened at him.

"You do?"

"I love you." He said in all honesty for the first time in his life. She rolled her eyes.

"I know. There's something else."

"Married?"

"Nope."

"Kids?"

"Not that I know of."

"Former KGB agent?"

"Neit."

"Mafia assassin?"

"Fuhgeddaboutit."

"Archangel?"

"Not scientifically possible."

"Republican?" At this she just laughed. "You're a man?" Trepidation creeped up his gullet during the three seconds she took to answer. Her sideways glance and Mona Lisa smile were not helping.

"Not anymore." Bile-laced champagne splurged all down the front of her. "Goddamnit, Seth! This is a nice dress!"

"Pre-op or post-op? Oh, fuck, please say post-op!" His panic raised several octaves.

"Would you keep your voice down? It's not even remotely what you think. How many times have we fucked? Don't you think you would have noticed if I was trying to hide the old sausage and eggs combo from you?"

"What is it then?" He growled.

"Well... we're kind of... the same person." Her eyes begged him to understand. Those eyes... those familiar eyes. He paused and then burst out laughing.

"Haha! Someone's breaking the first two rules of Fight Club! Now who's being derivative?" He stopped when she didn't join in his laughter.

"Everything in Hollywood is derivative. In fact, this whole thing has been a slight ripoff of the 'Cartoon Wars' episode of South Park." His gaze clouded at the mention of his rivals. Gal held up her hands, "She didn't realize it until it was almost done."

"Would you please, for once, give me a straight fucking answer?" Half a year of this shit was really starting to wear on him.

"Fine. I'm... your Ego." She looked as if she didn't expect him to believe her... and he didn't. Pinching his nose and mocking a nasally nurse's voice:

"Paging Dr. Freud, Dr. Freud."

"You're such an asshole... I guess that's one thing I always liked that about us." She really was trying to level with him.

"Okay... I'll bite. But can we just cut through all of the bullshit, please?" His voice was devoid of tenderness.

"Wouldn't have it any other way. Are we about to have a Scooby-Doo expositional moment here?"

"You were the one who wanted to move this along."

"Not me, her." Gal's eyes traced the ceiling.

"Whatever. Okay... you're my Ego, why are you a woman?" He lit another joint of salivacious blueberry indica.

"You don't realize... you fell in love with us back when Family Guy was finally picked up for a fourth season. You knew we could do no wrong, that we were untouchable. That kind of power is intoxicating and... very sexy. I broke off from your main psyche as a woman so that we could bone without you puking all over us. As evidenced by my now ruined dress, you're such a closet homophobe that your subconscious had to change my gender when we fell in love with us." His head was beginning to pound.

"Uhk. Can we stick to separate pronouns for the time being? Suppose I believe you, which I don't... How?" He was holding out hope that this was another one of her grifty little angles.

"Shall we do a 'Fight Club'-style montage?"

"If you must." He handed the joint to her so that he could focus. This was bound to be confusing.

"Sometimes you imagined you were talking to me." Images started to flicker through his mind. He saw himself standing at that party. A crowd of onlookers shared confused glances as he turned to where he thought Gal was standing, laughed at her raunchy joke and accepted an awkward one-person hug. "Sometimes, you let me take over." He was giving a powerpoint presentation to baffled executives and sat on the conference table, giving Mr. Cohen's bald spot a flirty tickle. "On occasion, you thought you were the voyeur, when you were actually the participant." He was laying on the mat in the boxing ring, kissing a very surprised Mila Cunis. "You're welcome for that."

Seth refused the joint when she offered it back to him. This was just too trippy.

"But... Murray! Murray knows who you are!"

"You don't have a lawyer named Murray. Just another one of your characters run amok."

He sat on the piano bench with his palms pressed into his eyes. Fear trickled down the back of his neck like hot candle wax. It was starting to make an alarming amount of sense. Her ubiquitous presence, her inside knowledge, her ability to manipulate his every action... the only explanation was...

"WHY? Why would you put me through all of this if we're the same person?"

"Because there comes a time in a man's life when he has to fight for what he believes! I helped you accomplish what you were afraid to do on your own. You were petrified of losing everything again, so you rolled over for those useless fucktards in charge. This pissed us off to no end, but you wouldn't do anything about it unless your hand was forced. Sometimes, the only way to build ourselves up is to break ourselves down first." Horror dawned on him. She stood by a rack of cellos in her beautiful, champagne-vomit covered dress with some secret melody playing in her ears.

"Are you telling me I fell in love with my own Ego?"

"Don't be so shocked. This is Los Angeles, it happens more often than you'd think."

"That's it! Fuck this! I'm leaving." He got up and made for the door, but she stopped him.

"Wait! Please, Seth. Don't you see that we're meant for each other?" She tried to kiss him, but he pushed her away.

"What the fuck does that mean? You're imaginary!"

"The mind will convince the body of whatever crazy belief instilled in it. Can't we just go on pretending? Christians do it all the time!"

"I'm an atheist." He pushed past her. She grabbed his arm with that scary-strength and turned him around, insanity splashed across her face.

"This will work, whether you like it or not." She kissed him with such intensity, he felt their two beings melding together again. There was only one way out. He responded to her with equal passion. His hands slid up the soft skin of her back, around her waist and over her breasts to her neck. She broke free from him with surprise lighting up her eyes like the 4th of July. Seth pressed down on her windpipe with both thumbs until she stopped moving. Her limp body fell to the hard-packed orange carpet with a thud.

Gal Friday lay on the floor of the band room, arms, gown and hair splayed out around her lifeless body. Seth MacFarlane looked down at her with a stony face.

"Did you really think that was going to work?" A voice commented from behind him. He spun around to see Gal Friday standing there, shaking her head and smiling. His heart began pounding against his ribcage. He turned back around to where she was laying before and in her place was... Mila Cunis.

"OH GOD NO! MILA!" Seth threw himself down on the floor and attempted CPR with zero skill.

"Pity. She was really hot." Gal stood over him with her arms crossed. "But she was getting in the way of us." Murderous rage exploded within Seth and he lunged at her, snarling like a wild animal. She disappeared before his hands could close around her throat. "This is getting very counterproductive. We need to take care of that body." She had reappeared sitting on the piano bench with her hands clasped in her lap and her lips pursed in disapproval. Seth collapsed into a quivering ball next to Mila's motionless form.

"This isn't happening. This isn't happening. This isn't happening..." He squeezed his eyes shut like a child hiding from a thunderstorm. Gal materialized in front of him.

"Technically, you're right." She smiled at his look of hopeful desperation. "You're not real either." Seth braced himself like the San Andreas fault was finally shucking California off of the continental United States.

"What?"

"Well, you're based on a real person, but you've long since diverged. You see, we're part of a story written by a fan from Virginia. We've mentioned her several times already." She shared the fact as if it were a soft down comforter on a frigid winter night. "Get up, wake to reality!" She sang, identical to Sinatra. Seth snapped, grabbed the empty champagne bottle and broke it on the leg of the piano.

"Listen, you psychotic hallucination, I decide my own reality! I'm Seth MacFarlane! Fuck you!" He started swinging the broken neck of the bottle at her like a madman. She giggled and inched just out of his reach with every wild slash.

"This is fun and all... but you really... need to accept... that you don't... have a choice." She leaped on top of the piano like a mountain goat and cast an evil grin down at him. "We outnumber you." The door burst open and every cartoon character he had ever drawn filed in conga-style, singing the Family Guy theme song. Seth stood with his mouth hanging open, holding the broken bottleneck as the conga line circled him. Gal danced on top of the piano in her stained evening gown, twirling gleefully. Seth looked down at the broken green glass in his hand and the world faded to black.

...

"_I'll be seeing you_

_In all the old familiar places_

_That this heart of mine embraces_

_All day through..."_

Don't worry, nobody dies in cartoons. Through a gray fog of morphine, Seth MacFarlane was starting to become aware of his surroundings. The strong smell of antiseptic invaded his nostrils and he could feel straps binding his wrists. A crack in one eyelid revealed a greeting card and teddy bear perched on the nightstand, reading:

_Get well soon! Love, Mila xoxo_

Over the drug-induced distance, he could hear the faint sound of Billie Holiday warbling on an old-timey transistor radio. The echoing clack-clack of high heels approached him. He opened his eyes to see a blurry nurse standing over him, checking his IV.

"I'm your number one fan..." She leaned in to fluff his pillows, giving him a facefull of hers. "...Mr. MacFarlane." It was Gal Friday, of course. Seth tried to scream through a mouthfull of gauze. A foot-long needle to his jugular took care of that. "Ugh. Let's listen to something with a little bounce in it, hmm?" There was the sound of radio static and "You're Gonna Go Far Kid" by The Offspring thumped as the bliss of oblivion settled over him.

"_Show me how to lie_

_You're getting better all the time_

_And turning all against the one_

_Is an art that's hard to teach._

_Another clever word_

_Sets off an unsuspecting herd_

_And as you step back into line_

_A mob jumps to their feet._

_Now dance, fucker, dance!_

_Man, he never had a chance_

_And no one even knew_

_It was really only you..._

_And now you steal away_

_Take him out today_

_Nice work you did_

_You're gonna go far, kid!_

_With a thousand lies_

_And a good disguise_

_Hit 'em right between the eyes_

_Hit 'em right between the eyes_

_When you walk away_

_Nothing more to say_

_See the lightning in your eyes_

_See 'em running for their lives!"_

The End.


	6. Author's Note

So there it is.


End file.
